"Can't Bev,—I—I'm done. Tried my best—but—I—" Barnabas reaches out suddenly—but is too far off—the Viscount lurches forward, loses his stirrups, sways—and "Moonraker" gallops—riderless. But help is at hand, for Barnabas sees divers rustic onlookers who run forward to lift the Viscount's inanimate form. Therefore he turns him back to the race, and bends all his energies upon this, the last and grimmest part of the struggle; as for "The Terror," he vents a snort of joyful defiance, for now he is galloping again in full view of Sir Mortimer Carnaby's foam-flecked gray.
And now—it's hey! for the rush and tear of wind through the hair! for the muffled thunder of galloping hoofs! for the long, racing stride, the creak of leather! Hey! for the sob and pant and strain of the conflict!
Inch by inch the great, black horse creeps up, but Carnaby sees him coming, and the gray leaps forward under his goading heels,—is up level with Slingsby and the Marquis,—but with "The Terror" always close behind.
Over a hedge,—across a ditch,—and down a slope they race together, —knees in, heads low,—to where, at the bottom, is a wall. An ancient, mossy wall it is, yet hideous for all that, an almost impossible jump, except in one place, a gap so narrow that but one may take it at a time. And who shall be first? The Marquis is losing ground rapidly—a foot—a yard—six! and losing still, races now a yard behind Barnabas. Thus, two by two, they thunder down upon the gap that is but wide enough for one. Slingsby is plying his whip, Carnaby is rowelling savagely, yet, neck and neck, the sorrel and the gray race for the jump, with Barnabas and the Marquis behind.
"Give way, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"Be damned if I do!" roars the Captain, and in go his spurs.
"Pull over, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.
"No, b'gad! Pull over yourself," roars the Captain. "Give way,
Carnaby—I have you by a head!"
An exultant yell from Slingsby,—a savage shout from Sir Mortimer—a sudden, crunching thud, and the gallant sorrel is lying a twisted, kicking heap, with Captain Slingsby pinned beneath.
"What, Beverley!" he cries, coming weakly to his elbow, "well ridden, b'gad! After him! The 'Rascal' 's done for, poor devil! So am I, —it's you or Carnaby now—ride, Beverley, ride!" And so, as Barnabas flashes past and over him, Captain Slingsby of the Guards sinks back, and lies very white and still.